


paint the daytime black

by drewgon



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Anxiety, Assault, Attempted Sexual Assault, Dissociation, Gen, Hurt Peter, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Whump, light on the comfort tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-04 20:48:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11563053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drewgon/pseuds/drewgon
Summary: An injury Peter suffers while patrolling has some unexpected consequences. It's all downhill from there.--Content warning in the beginning notes, please be safe!!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> do not read if you will be triggered by graphic descriptions of violent assault, injury, dissociation, and unreality (peter spends a significant amount of time fading in and out of consciousness and experiencing repetitive thoughts and is overall in very bad shape mentally)
> 
> tw for like.. actual violent assault i know it's in the tags but for real guys don't read this fic. like i just want to emphasize that. 
> 
> this was very much a vent fic in lots of different ways, so i'm sorry about all of that. this was something i wrote when i was in a very _very_ bad mental state in an attempt to cope with Things I Will Not Elaborate On, and in no way do i mean to glorify any of the things that are portrayed in this fic. in fact i did my best to portray them realistically (within the context of the mcu) so if you feel that there are any issues with it please let me know and i'll make any necessary edits!

Peter wants to go home.

It’s been a long day. Despite the fact that it’s barely past 6:30, Peter has been thoroughly worn out. After three exams, one of which included an essay, and two more tomorrow that he still needs to study for, Peter is ready to be done.

There hasn’t even been any crime to stop today, not that he had been able to find. The only noteworthy incident in his patrol so far was an attempted robbery of a hot dog vendor, and that had resolved itself instantly. The would-be robber had a gun, but as soon as Spider-Man made an appearance, he admitted the weapon was non-functional and surrendered. Even that minor event had taken place over an hour ago.

Peter feels like he never has enough time. No matter what he's doing, there are always at least five other things that demand his attention. When he’s at school, he feels as though he’s neglecting his responsibility to protect the people of New York. Likewise, on days like this, when there seems to be nothing bad for Peter to stop, that familiar pit of anxiety builds up in his stomach -- the one that tells him that something, somewhere, is horribly wrong, and simultaneously that he’s useless and no one needs or even wants his help.

He knows that he can’t stop patrolling early -- if he does, some terrible crime will be committed that Spider-Man won’t be around to prevent, and he would never forgive himself. He almost talks himself into finding his backpack and digging out his history textbook to take a short study break on top of some tall building, as he occasionally does when a day is uneventful, when a scream rings out.

Though he can tell it isn’t very close by, the volume of it shocks him. He takes off, slinging carelessly between buildings. The closer he gets, the clearer the sound becomes. He can hear a second voice now, also yelling, though more coherent and controlled than the other. He knows that someone is being attacked, but the scene before him as he rounds the corner is not what he had expected.

A young woman, long hair knotted and ripped from being grabbed, cowers on the ground. Her face is pressed up against the wall, leaving small red spots. The lower half of her short, casual sundress has been torn almost beyond recognition, and a smear of blood marks her mid-thigh. A man who Peter thinks must be in at least his late thirties stands above the woman, who continues to plead for help despite her shaking voice. Just as the man begins to stride towards her, a glint of metal catches Peter’s eye: there’s a knife in his hand.

“Shut. The. Fuck. _Up!_ ” the man shouts, each syllable separated from the next with a solid kick to the woman’s ribs.

Peter’s response is immediate. Between his prior exhaustion and the sudden rage consuming his mind, he doesn’t bother with his usual snark. He webs the man’s foot before he can kick the woman again, and she flinches despite the blow never landing. As he yanks the man towards him, Peter feels his blood boiling. Without thinking, he kicks the knife away and lifts the man by the collar of his shirt to punch him in the face. 

His stare is intense, all periphery forgotten -- Peter doesn’t notice the man reaching for his pocket until it’s too late. Suddenly, there’s another knife in the criminal’s hand and he swings with a wild snarl towards Peter’s masked face. It makes contact, and he feels the sting of the blade immediately. On instinct, Peter kicks out, a precise side kick catching the attacker directly in the neck and knocking him back. His heart is in his throat, and with the way his anger pounds through his veins, he thinks he might choke on it.

He doesn’t give the man another chance to get up, swiftly trapping him in an inescapable array of webs. Then he kicks the man in the head a couple times, for good measure. That level of force really wasn’t necessary to knock the man unconscious, he knows, but he’s so pissed off that it doesn’t matter. Just as he’s about to kick the man again, a small whimper from behind him brings Peter back to reality.

He forces himself to stop and take a few deep breaths before turning around to face the woman. Peter had caught a glimpse of her before going after her attacker, but now that he can see her face clearly, he feels nauseous.

She’s older than him, but not by much. At a guess, Peter would put her between nineteen and twenty-one. Her face is bruised, and drying blood from a small gash on her eyebrow is beginning to crust along the side of her face. 

“He -- oh, God, he said he was gonna --” her panicked statement is cut off by a fit of dry heaving and sobs.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright, you don’t have to say anything. I gotcha.” Peter gently examines her torso for any severe damage, and comes to the conclusion that nothing is broken. He finds that a bit surprising based on how the man had been treating her, but he hadn’t heard anything crack when the man kicked her before. “Did he hurt you anywhere else?” She nods, gesturing to her thigh, and immediately Peter remembers the blood he had seen there.

“God, okay, is it cool if I check that out? If -- if you don’t want me to, I’ll leave it, but I think we should, like, see how bad it is or if it needs to be cleaned or, uh, anything like that?” The woman nods again. “Alright, let me help you out.”

With that, Peter gives her his arm for support, and she slowly turns herself over. The motion is difficult for her in her current state -- her whole body is shaking just as violently as when he got there -- and Peter swoops in when her elbow gives out, catching her before she hits the ground, but the woman flinches away from his touch.

“Sorry! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to freak you out, I’ll try not to, uh, grab you again. Here, just let me--” Peter gingerly places his hand on her arm and guides her down, until she’s lying flat on her stomach, the uninjured side of her face resting on the meat of her upper arm. “I promise this won’t take long, I just need to make sure this cut isn’t gonna be a problem.” He kneels beside her, bending over to examine the wound as unobtrusively as possible.

“Shit,” he breathes, then curses himself immediately for swearing. “Damn! I mean, um, nothing, lady, I’m sorry--”

“Sam.”

Her voice is soft, still clearly uneasy after what had just happened, but it’s the first thing she’s said since she stopped screaming for help, and certainly the most composure she's been able to collect.

“My name is Sam. You can, uh... call me that.”

“Right, okay. Cool. I’m sorry, Sam.” Taking a deep breath, he goes back to checking the cut, this time in a less tense (albeit not completely comfortable) silence. Though he doesn’t have much in terms of first aid equipment, the incident with the Vulture not long ago had led Mr. Stark to ensure Peter would have access to at least the basics. From a tiny compartment near his hip, he pulls out a small packet containing an antiseptic wipe, which he uses to clean the area.

 _Jesus, that’s deep,_ he thinks. Not a very astute observation, but for some reason, he’s having a hard time keeping his mind on task. Peter’s eyes are fixed on the edge of the cut, unfocused, the clashing shades of coagulating red blood and cool brown skin mixing together into a single gradient haze.

“-idey? Spider-Man, you still with me?” Sam’s voice startles him. Peter jumps back, suddenly noticing how dry his eyes are, and the slight prickling feeling in his fingers and on his cheek.

“Yes! Yeah, I was just… focusing. It’s cool.” He turns his attention back to the wound again. This time, he’s determined to stay grounded.

It’s not much compared to some of Peter’s past injuries, but then again this girl isn’t a genetically altered superhuman. For him, a few bandages and maybe eighteen hours without aggravating it, and he would be good to go. On anyone else, a cut like this needs more professional attention.

Sighing, he turns the unconscious man webbed tight to the pavement beside him. Although Peter expects he won’t be waking up again anytime soon, he remains as careful and quiet as possible as he exposes the man’s arm, tears off the long sleeve, and secures him again under fresh webbing. 

He then turns back to Sam. “So, I’m pretty sure you’re gonna need stitches. For now, though, I’m gonna wrap it with this. Then we can worry about getting you out of here.”

Sam gives him a weak thumbs-up. Peter reciprocates, then tears the sleeve open so that he now has one long band of fabric instead of a tube. Peter moves as quickly as he can without accidentally hurting her, but finds it more difficult than it should be. His hands have always been reasonably nimble, even before the spider bite, as a result of several years spent handling complex technology and delicate scientific procedures. Now, however, his fingers fumble around the cloth with all the frustration and fine motor skills of a four-year-old trying to tie his shoe. It takes him over a minute to complete the process, when it should have only taken seconds.

Peter swallows the unease rising in the back of his throat before addressing Sam again. “I think this is the part where I call the paramedics?”

“No!” Sam moves to grab his wrist, but he flinches back before she can make contact. “Shit, sorry. I just meant, I don’t think that’s necessary?”

“Not necessary? You need stitches, and someone who can actually clean that cut out beforehand, too! I’m not qualified to help you there, I just handle the daring rescue _before_ the medical attention.”

“I’m not saying I won’t get stitches, I just… I don’t want to have to talk to anyone about this. Not yet.”

“I understand, but--”

“I’m studying to be a nurse, I know enough to clean it up and stitch it myself. Also, I don't have health insurance. Please, just get me back to my house.”

He pauses for a moment, considering the situation.

“Y-yeah. Yeah, alright. Can you walk?”

******

Sam’s house isn’t too far away. Thankfully she’s able to direct them there via mostly empty streets, because Sam is not in a sturdy enough mental state to face the fast-paced city. She had tried walking at first, but the trembling of her limbs that had yet to die down combined with the condition of her injured leg made it near impossible for her to support herself.

Though it took some convincing, she had agreed to let Spider-Man carry her back to her apartment. He understood her hesitance, after what she had just been through, but it was the only way. So he walks, carrying the woman steadily despite her being nearly a head taller than him.

"Did you know that man?"

He doesn't know why he asked, especially so out of the blue, but it's too late now.

"Are you gonna start asking why I was out and what I was wearing?" Sam rolls her eyes, but his response is genuine.

"God, no. M -- I mean, uh, someone I know would literally kill me if I ever so much as thought that. If you had asked, you wouldn't have been calling for help," he says matter-of-factly. "You, uh, don't have to answer. It was a stupid question."

"No," Sam mutters after a few beats of silence. "I didn't."

******

It’s funny, Peter thinks. Normally, he has the strength to stop a truck without batting an eye, but now, carrying what couldn’t be more than 130 pounds for ten minutes, his shoulder muscles are beginning to ache. He feels… out of it. It’s probably just stress, he figures, chalking it up to the post-school fatigue he hadn’t had the chance to shake off before the fight with Sam’s attacker.

The next thing he knows, Peter is standing in front of a door. He doesn’t remember the directions Sam had given him, can’t remember any of what they had passed on the way here or recognize any of his surroundings now. Peter has no idea where he is.

“Spider-Man?” Sam’s voice is timid as she tries to get his attention.

“Oh, uh, right. Sorry.” Peter shifts her in his arms long enough to swing the door open, “Where should I…?”

“On the couch, I guess.”

He sets her down gently, or at least tries, but Sam cries out when he lets go and he realizes he had just dropped her.

“Sorry! I’m sorry, that isn’t what I meant to do at all--”

“It’s fine,” Sam groans, hand moving to her injured thigh. “You’re good. Just bring me the first aid stuff from that drawer.” She points to a small table with a drawer built in, and he does as she asks.

Peter stays long enough to make sure everything is fine. He sits upside down in a cushioned chair while Sam stitches herself up, and allows his mind to wander. Around him, the colors of the room bleed into each other until he isn’t sure whether he has his eyes open or closed. He’s drifting. The sounds of the room, the ticking of the clock and Sam’s hisses as the needle moves through her again and again, have faded. All he can hear is blood pumping through his veins. Not even that, unless he focuses. His senses have compartmentalized, each a mutually exclusive function from the others.

A hand shaking his shoulder brings him back, and a moment passes before he realizes that it’s Sam, asking if he’s alright.

“I feel fine.” Sam’s finger traces his cheek, and a second later he processes the sensation.

“You’re bleeding,” she breathes.

“Hey, I’m a superhero. This stuff happens.” He tries to laugh, and fails. “It’ll go away, I he-heal fast. It’s a thing.”

Sam shakes her head, though, and furrows her brow. “It looks like it’s gotten deeper.”

That can’t be right.

Sam doesn’t answer him, and Peter's thoughts stretch far enough past the burning where Sam had touched his face for him to realize that he hadn’t opened his mouth.

“That can’t be right.”

“I can look at it if you--” Sam moves her hand towards the base of his mask, and Peter flings himself back immediately. 

“I hav- have to go. Nice saving you, see you ar-around!” 

Ignoring the way his voice catches, Peter throws himself out the door. He doesn’t know where he is, so he runs towards where he thinks he hears people, but he keeps not knowing and everything he sees is hollow. 

He bumps into someone maybe, or a few someones, but then there's nothing, no one the next time he can think, so maybe not. He keeps running. He thinks that's what he was doing, he's pretty sure because he can feel his head move. Nothing feels right yet, so he keeps moving. Time is passing by over his head and it's like walking in just as your friends start to laugh, if instead of laughing they turned into different faces in a different room.

His hands are touching brick.

He can see it. It _is_ something, he thinks. Less hollow. There’s glass now that he can see too. He touches it, it moves down, and there's a floor, and there's a bed, and there's more rooms, and there's a shower. His, maybe? He thinks so, there are things here and their colors are right when his eyes can find them. Good. His face is wet, so the water is running. He doesn’t wash his hair and he doesn’t touch soap but everything smells like orange, or is he seeing orange, or is he touching it. He doesn’t know. 

His face is still wet the next time he checks but it's the only part that is, and it's red like blood. His face _burns_ and the rest of him is cold. His feet aren’t on the ground because he isn’t moving forward. It's all cold and his fingers feel weird and he wants them to fall off.

“Honey, are you okay?” is distant but someone is touching his back, and “Peter? Hey, hey, look at me. I’m gonna…” he knows it’s her, it’s May, he _knows_ it and he hears her, “ambulance. Honey, you’re” but he can’t do that, it wouldn’t work because they don’t know about him and they would do it wrong, “fine, okay?”

 _No_ , he says, _S-Stark_.

He doesn’t know if he actually said it so he tries again.

 _No_ , he says, _S-Stark_.

He doesn’t know if he actually said it so he tries again.

 _No_ , he says, _S-Stark_.

He doesn’t know if he actua

******

He wakes up in a bed that isn't his own.


	2. Chapter 2

He wakes up in a bed that isn’t his own.

The mattress feels too firm, the sheets too crisp and too clean and too many, for this to be his. He can move, which he knows because it feels like an entire ocean has been poured into his head, the tides shifting direction when he so much as twitches. He doesn’t try to move anymore.

It’s all dark, as if one thick layer of black rests before his eyes to block out the world.

He’s breathing, in in in in in out out out out out out, and it suddenly becomes the center of his awareness, but focus slips through his fingers like sand. The air is still moving through him but it’s so slow and shallow that he can’t feel whether it’s coming or _going_ and with all of his fractured willpower he thinks he can feel the direction of each individual molecule, each atom of it in his lungs.

Peter goes back to sleep.

******

He wakes up in a bed that isn’t his own, in an unfamiliar room of an unfamiliar building.

This time, he knows for sure. Two of the three walls he can see are painted a soft grey, undecorated. There’s a metallic grey desk against the left wall with a matching metallic grey chair, a shade or two lighter than the rest of the room, and both are empty. To his right is a wall of windows. They’re tinted slightly, through them only dim sunlight settling over the room.

Across from him, there’s a door. It’s the same color as the wall it's centered on. Squinting at it makes it blend in almost, as if there’s no depth to it.

The world is too quiet. If he closes his eyes, it feels like he’s floating.

Not for the first time this… _his thoughts falter -- he doesn’t know when he is,_ Peter wants to go home.

Instead, he goes back to sleep.

******

The next time Peter wakes up, he had already been awake.

He’s staring at the ceiling. It’s smooth, white. The light fixtures are like little orbs partially embedded in it, glowing softly. It looks nice.

Somewhere, a clock starts ticking. He can’t see one, it must be on the wall behind him, so he cranes his neck to look and it feels weird but he sees the clock hanging above his bed, and he’s struck with the realization that it must have been ticking this whole time.

His eyes are dry. He blinks. They’ve been open for a while to feel like this, must have been. Which means he had been awake for at least a few minutes before now. Okay. He keeps blinking.

The pain hits him then. Everything had been in fast forward around him, leaving Peter swept up in the directionless current, and it doesn’t even click in his mind until the world slams on its metaphorical brakes and something in the core of what he is bursts in the whiplash. Every part of him is rusted, from his tensed shoulders to his spine to the muscles of his legs. It’s an old pain, like it’s in the process of fading but he can’t remember the sharpness before the tired ache.

He reaches up to scratch his face, and finds a trail of stitches beneath his cheekbone, following its defined path. He can’t remember being cut.

That’s when it hits him, sends him reeling: he can’t remember being cut, or coming to this strange place, or the last time he ate, or went to school, or saw Aunt May. He can’t remember _why_.

Something inside him solidifies then, a newfound resolve that settles into the base of his stomach like an anchor, and he knows his mind is where it should be.

Peter sits up.

******

Okay, so, walking is not an option. His legs felt stiff before, but an attempt to move them towards the edge of the bed sends a jolt of pain through his back and his every joint is so rigid, every muscle so incredibly tense that he almost worries part of him might break off if he tries again. 

Not that he needs to anymore, because the door across the room creaks open not a moment later. It’s _Tony_. And shit, does he look bad.

Dark circles are nothing unusual for Mr. Stark, but these are on another level -- it’s the first thing that grabs Peter’s attention and he does a double take before realizing his mentor doesn’t have two black eyes. He can’t decide if that should make him feel better or not.

The man’s hair is a mess, too, like the only attention it’s received for days has been the result of worried hands working through it.

“Kid…” He says it like he wants to keep going, but the rest of the sentence withers on his tongue. Neither of them says anything else for a few minutes. Tony pulls the desk chair out and sits facing the bed. 

Peter doesn’t want to make eye contact. He moves his toes in a slight rhythm, watching the way the sheets rise and fall in a series of abstract shapes. Glancing down, he notices what he’s wearing -- a plain black t-shirt with a slight v-neck, several sizes too big for him. It’s one of the shirts Tony wears during lab work.

He takes a deep breath and breaks the silence. “How long has it been?”

“Two and a half weeks.”

“What the hell happened to me?” Peter asks shakily. Mr. Stark’s answer to his last question had been straightforward, but the way his voice cracked and caught on each word has Peter thinking he might not want to know the answer to this one.

“ _I_ should be the one asking _you_ that,” Tony snaps, and Peter recoils instinctively. “Your aunt called me in the middle of the night, practically hysterical. She thought you were _dying_ , Peter. What did you _do_?”

“I- I don’t remember! There was just this girl, I remember helping her--” His mind is blank for too long, his memory of anything before now still a patchwork of vague smells and sounds, but then something comes back to him. “That _guy_.”

“What guy?”

“She was being attacked by this guy. I took him out and left him for the police, but he had a knife and when I knocked it out of his hand he pulled out another one. I guess -- I guess he cut me before I had a chance to notice. I didn’t… I was too busy trying to help the girl to think about it.” Peter rubs his finger along the stitches on his face. “I thought it would heal up like everything else does.”

Tony sighs. He doesn’t look angry, despite having snapped at Peter less than a minute ago.

“Whatever he cut you with, there was something on it. Poison, maybe a drug, but not like I’d ever seen before. It could have been some alien substance, or something underground that’s taken ages to develop. We couldn’t find enough of it in its original state to confirm anything, but either way would explain why we had no idea how to help you beyond treating symptoms.” He’s running his hand through his hair again, doing nothing to tame the mess. “It looks like you pulled through on your own, but you took your sweet time. Without your healing factor, you might not have made it.”

“...Oh.”

“Yeah, _oh_ ,” says Tony, but there’s no bite to it. Where Peter expects to hear an impatient lecture _(I told you to be good enough_ and _I told you to be better)_ he’s met instead with a quiet look that betrays none of Tony’s opinions on the situation except for the same worry and exhaustion.

“Are you gonna take away the suit?” Peter’s voice is barely above a whisper. His hand fiddles nervously with the collar of his shirt, and his gaze is fixed on his knees. “Please don’t take it, Mr. Stark, I promise I’ll be more careful, I’ll- I’ll do better, but if I can’t be out there then bad things like this will happen to normal people who can’t handle it and it’ll be my fault I couldn’t stop it.” The words spill out so fast he stumbles over them, has to fight to keep himself from rambling.

“What makes you think _you_ can handle it?”

“Mr. Stark, if that girl had been cut like this she would have _died_. You said it yourself, my healing factor was probably the only thing that kept me from -- that kept me alive. Right? That makes me one of the only people who _can_ handle it--”

“That’s not what I meant.” Peter bristles at that, but doesn’t try to argue against what Tony is implying.

“You never answered my question,” he says instead.

“May has been worried sick, you know.”

“That’s not--”

“She hasn’t left the compound since we brought you here, probably hasn’t stopped crying since either. She’s out there right now and I think you owe her an explanation. I won’t tell you what to do, but I will say this: I don’t think you can lie your way out of this one.” 

Despite the unprompted change of subject, Peter knows Tony is right. It had been weeks and his aunt had no idea why this had happened. While he _is_ grateful that Tony had kept his secret, he hates to think of the state she must be in by now. It isn’t fair to her.

“You talk to her,” Tony begins, standing up, “and then we’ll talk about the suit.” He puts the chair back in front of the desk, and then walks out of the room.

******

When Aunt May walks into the room, Peter doesn’t look at her. He knows that if he does, he’ll start crying, and he can’t afford to do that until after he tells her.

She doesn’t sit down, which scares him a little bit because of how her legs are shaking so hard he can see it despite not having looked, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Hi, baby.” Her tired voice hits Peter like a punch to the gut. She reaches out to squeeze his hand, and he doesn’t squeeze back -- if the last time he tried to move was any indication, he suspects it would result in spasms and more pain.

“Hey,” he mutters, unsure of where to steer the conversation. Aunt May must have questions, he figures, and it’s only fair at this point for him to let her ask. But when she doesn’t say anything, instead running her fingers loosely, absentmindedly through his hair, he asks a question of his own.

“Where… uh, where are we?”

“Oh. I thought Mr. Stark would have told you.”

“I guess I forgot to ask,” he replies with a hint of his usual sarcasm, enough to tug the corner of May’s lip up into a soft, if bittersweet, grin.

“We’re at the new Avengers facility. The ‘compound’, he calls it. He told me he hadn’t had a chance to bring you here yet, that it wasn’t supposed to be under such… extreme circumstances.”

Peter remembers the day he had been invited to join the Avengers, the day he had come here and been offered a new suit and a new _life._ That was not long after he had defeated the Vulture. He hadn’t come in past the lobby, though. _If that hadn’t been a test,_ he wonders, _if I had said yes…_

He stops himself from questioning it further. It’s better this way, regardless.

“You have to tell me what’s going on with you.”

“What--”

“No, you _listen,_ ” she says, and her voice, though terrified, has hardened. “I found you on your bathroom floor screaming in a pool of your own blood, and I’ve been sitting in this glorified waiting room for almost _three weeks,_ thinking that you were -- that I would never see you again. And before that? You think I didn’t notice the bruises, the limps? I know you snuck in late every night, almost always hurt, but I stopped asking! Not because I don’t care, but because it hurt too much to try when I knew you would never just _talk_ to me.”

She cuts off then, fighting back tears.

“You’re right.” And she looks at him, with so many emotions mixed in her expression that he can’t tell which he’s most afraid of confronting. “Aunt May,” he says, cautious, “I’m gonna tell you something, and it’s gonna sound insane but I swear it’s the truth.”

“Honestly, Peter? After all the shit that’s been going on with you, there has to be some crazy explanation for it because I can’t think of anything else.” Aunt May is trembling, has been since she walked in, and he knows if she hadn’t just spent the better part of a month thinking he might not wake up, she would be pissed.

Peter sighs. Being bedridden after a nearly fatal reaction to some sort of weird poison that left him floating between unconsciousness and a dissociative state for weeks had been bad enough (and now he’s remembering all the tests and homework he must have missed already, _fuck_ ). On top of that, being forced by the circumstances to reveal his biggest secret, that he has worked so hard to keep over the past year, to his aunt who looks like she might be about to pass out from panic?

 _This,_ Peter thinks bitterly, _is the nightmare scenario._

“Remember that- that school trip I went on, like a little more than a year ago? The science one, where we visited that big corporation?” and he can feel himself procrastinating now, taking the long route before he has to actually say it but it’s too late now, the story is underway. “When I was there, I got -- something happened to me, there was this bug in one of the rooms that they had been doing, like, _experiments_ on or something, and -- well, i-it was a spider, and it bit me and then things- things just started changing all of a sudden. I still don’t know how it happened really but I was sick for a week, and then… and then I got these weird abilities?” He doesn’t say _powers_ \-- that sounds too much like something out of a comic book, something that could never be true.

“I started to stick to things first,” he says quietly, hates how childish it sounds. “I broke some jerk’s arm by accident during dodgeball and that’s how I found out I was like, _really_ strong. There’s a bunch of other stuff I can do now, too, but that’s not the point. After Ben, I couldn’t… I had to _do_ something, because I _can_ do something about it now, and if I don’t, more people will die like -- like that.” _Like him._ "Aunt May, I'm... I'm _Spider-Man._ "

The look Aunt May fixes him with is equal parts confused, skeptical, and heartbroken.

“I- I swear, I wouldn’t lie about this.” He knows she can hear the anxiety rising in his tone. “Before I came home that night, there was this guy, and he was in an alley and there was this woman with him and she- I heard her screaming for help, I got there and he was gonna, he was gonna _do things_ to her, hurt her, maybe _kill_ her. I couldn’t just do nothing and let it happen! She was so scared, and I got so mad I didn’t even think about it when he cut me and it didn’t heal up like normal. I didn’t think, I just had to get her to her home and make her safe, I couldn’t- I wasn’t--”

He cuts off his rambling at the sound of a choked sob, and looks up. For the first time since she came to see him, Peter looks at May directly. Her eyes are red and puffy with tears, knuckles white from tightly gripping her own upper arms. She’s clearly been crying since long before she stepped into the room.

“Aunt May, I didn’t…” He hesitates, takes a breath to calm himself down and to push back the tears trying to escape. “I'm Spider-Man because I have to be. And I do this stuff all the time. Maybe it’s not usually as bad as this, but I’ve been getting better. I do it for _him_.”

She steps into his space, expression unchanged. Then her arms are enfolding him, and Peter’s aching spine threatens to snap in half, but he doesn’t care. She pulls herself as close to him as she can get. Peter’s mind idles -- this isn’t the reaction he was expecting, he doesn’t know how to respond -- and he finds himself wrapping an arm around her, free hand stroking her hair. It’s not comfortable (and Peter expects it would be less so if not for his gradually returning super strength), but he doesn’t mind.

After too long, and yet far too soon, she stops shaking, sobs reduced to apologetic sniffles. She stands up. Peter feels smaller without her, almost exposed.

“You need to rest,” she says, wiping at her nose with the side of her hand. “I need… time. I’m tired. We’ll talk about this later.” It sounds like a promise, not a threat. Peter nods.

Aunt May is halfway out the door when she stops and turns her head. “I’m proud of you, Peter. And I love you.”

“Love you too.”

And then she’s gone. 

The door closes softly behind her and Peter doesn’t know what to think.

He looks for his phone (he hadn’t even had time to think about Ned and MJ until now, doubts it would have occurred to either his aunt or Tony Stark to contact them), but it’s nowhere to be seen, probably buried in his backpack with the rest of his things.

What he finds instead is a bowl of oatmeal. It’s sitting on his nightstand, still warm -- Aunt May must have brought it in. All of a sudden, Peter notices the fact that he’s _starving_. He shudders with the realization that he probably hasn’t eaten since it happened.

He eats it so fast he thinks he might black out.

Almost as soon as he’s done he regrets it, waves of nausea and fatigue washing over him. He slides down against the pillows behind him and tries to sleep. It might have worked, were he not in so much pain. Staring at the ceiling, he pushes his focus towards anything that isn’t the gnawing ache in his legs, the soreness encompassing every part of him, when he picks up on the sound of muffled voices.

He can barely make it out, but Peter recognizes his aunt’s voice even when he can’t tell what she’s saying. Her tone is even and low, composed the way she often is after crying, and she’s talking to a man who Peter thinks must be Mr. Stark. His voice mirrors hers in a way that shocks Peter, in a way that it implies a sincerity he doesn’t think he’s seen from the man before. Leave it to May to bring out his genuine side when it’s needed.

Their conversation pauses for a moment, and Peter hears movement, and then:

“You raised a good person.”

“I know.”

The words are so hushed, he's surprised he could hear them at all.

 _Maybe,_ he thinks, _this changes things for the better._ Peter puts his bowl on the floor and pulls the blankets up to his chin.

He falls asleep in a bed that feels like home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i meant to have this posted like two days ago but it ended up being much longer than i thought it would be, and it took me a while to edit this to a point where i felt comfortable sharing it, so i'm very sorry.

**Author's Note:**

> so this was admittedly very chaotic. i tried to write it the way it feels when it happens to me because this is sorta vent-y but still. sometimes i get sad and when i get sad things like this get written. idk how i feel about this?
> 
> anyway this work is intended to be part of a series but my schedule is about to pick up with college visits and stuff for my arts classes (feel free to guilt trip me in the comments tho, a bit of slightly manipulative encouragement can go a long way)
> 
> so yeah everything else i wanted to write has been planned but if you have suggestions feel free to leave it in the comments!! also i would like to formally apologize for my complete lack of medical knowledge. i'm sorry. i barely know how to put on a band-aid so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> i'm on tumblr @kirishimadhd so feel free to hit me up there whenever! it's a very new side blog so there's not much there yet, but hopefully there will be soon c:
> 
> title from bob dylan's "she belongs to me" but really only the eliza rickman cover, and the song has literally nothing to do with this fic at all except the title line


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